But let us go back to our subject.

All this time we journeyed on. The stars had kept their watch above our heads, and the moon, as if passing in review the various quarters of heaven, had been moving from west to east, and was very high on the horizon. We were chilled through after the night’s ride, longing to arrive at some wayside inn or venta where we might get something warm. The dawn was heralded in the far east by a broad streak of light, which grew rapidly, covering that side of the horizon like a fan, and soon bursting into glorious daylight. In equatorial regions there is hardly any dawn or twilight; in those latitudes there is no prelude of semi-obscurity that either waxes into day or wanes slowly into the dark, like the note of the lute, falling into silence so faintly and softly that none can tell the exact moment when it dies. At evening the sun sinks to the verge of the horizon, and disappears like a luminous orb dropped into empty space, and darkness sets in almost immediately. In the mountainous lands his last rays crown the highest peaks with a halo of glory, when darkness has settled over the valleys and mountain flanks. The moment the sun sets the stars assert their empire, and they are more numerous to the eye than anywhere else in the world. As for the moon, I have already spoken of its brilliancy. Another phenomenon connected with it is worthy of notice in our special case. During the various months of the trip which I am now describing, it seems to me that we had a full moon every night. I know that this is not quite in accordance with the established rules, or what in modern parlance is sometimes called the schedule of time for lunar service, but I am narrating my impressions, and, according to them, such is the fact. I should suggest that, as everything in Spanish lands is more or less topsy-turvy at times, the rules applicable to the moon in well-regulated countries do not hold good there, but I remember just in time that these irregularities apply solely to things human that happen ‘tiles downwards,’ as the Spaniards say, and cannot, therefore, affect the phenomena of Nature. As an explanation must be found for my permanent moon, an acceptable compromise would be that the ordinary moon did duty on its appointed nights, leaving the others—during which we wandered over mountain, through valley and forest, and on the waters of the silent rivers—to be illuminated for our own special benefit by some deputy moon, for whose services we were then, and still are, most grateful.

As to the topsy-turviness of things Spanish and Spanish-American, the story is told that Santiago, the patron saint of Spain, being admitted into the presence of God, asked and obtained for the land of Spain and for its people all sorts of blessings: marvellous fertility for the soil, natural wealth of all kinds in the mountains and the forests, abundance of fish in the rivers and of birds in the air; courage, sobriety, and all the manly virtues for men; beauty, grace, loveliness, for the women. All this was granted, but, on the point of leaving, the saint, it is said, asked from God that he would also grant Spain a good government. The request was denied, as then, it is said, the Lord remarked, the angels would abandon heaven and flock to Spain. The story has lost none of its point even at the present day.

With the morning we reached the longed-for venta, a square, thatch-roofed hut, which stood by the roadside quite close to the mountain-range which we had reached after crossing the whole breadth of the plateau. Outside stood several pack-horses and mules, tied to the columns and waiting for their loads. Under the roof the space was divided into three rooms, one of them provided with a counter and shelves running along the sides of the walls, whereon bottles of various sizes and contents were exhibited, and where chicha, the national drink, was served to thirsty travellers. The middle room was what might be called the sitting, waiting, sleeping, and dining room all in one, and the other was the kitchen. The fire was built on the ground, several logs burning brightly in the open air, filling the room with smoke and heat, On three stones—the traditional stones of the first hearth—a saucepan was seen in full boil. In the parlour we saw several peones, or labourers, from the highlands on their way to the coffee estates to help in the harvest. Behind the counter, the ventera, barmaid and landlady all in one, buxom and wreathed in smiles, was already filling either the totuma, a large bowl cut from a gourd, containing about a quart of chicha, or the small glass of native whisky (aguardiente).

We jumped from our horses and entered the so-called sitting-room, envying the men who slept deep and strong as virtue on the bare ground. In a few minutes Fermin had brought from our saddle-bags the copper kettle used for making chocolate, and the paste for the preparation of that delicious drink. Within twenty minutes of our arrival we had before us the steaming cups of chocolate which had been boiled three times, in accordance with the orthodox principle which lays it down that this must be done if it is to be rightly done; it was well beaten and covered with that foam peculiar to chocolate brewed in hot water, which looks at you with its thousand eyes or bubbles that burst as the liquor is imbibed. Never was a cup of chocolate more welcome. The night seemed to have been interminable now that it lay behind. We would fain have stretched ourselves on the ground with the labourers, but to reach our destination that day it was necessary to lose no time; so after an hour’s rest, during which our horses had had their pienso of fodder, we started again, now over more broken country, leaving the plain behind us, climbing and descending the road which was still available for carts and wheeled vehicles of all sorts.

And thus we advanced, seeing the sunrise darting its slanting rays, which were quite pleasant to feel in the early morning, until they became perpendicular, hot, and almost unbearable in the dusty road.

The horses, after the long journey, slackened their pace, and we looked upon surrounding Nature with weary eyes and that emptiness of feeling in the brain, that consciousness of a void somewhere, which always follow nights passed absolutely without sleep.

Towards four in the afternoon, after seventeen hours’ steady ride, interrupted only by the short stay at the roadside venta, we reached the hacienda of Gambita, where one of our companions, Raoul, who had started ahead to prepare everything for the longer journey, was waiting for us. He came up quite briskly along the road, joyful at our arrival, full of spirits, and most anxious that the journey should be continued. He might well feel thus, as he had not passed a sleepless night on horseback like a knight-errant over field and moor. The desire for sleep and rest was overpowering—all else lacked interest for us; so that, alighting from our horses, we walked into the house, and, finding convenient sofas, stretched ourselves and slept. Like Dante after listening to the sorrowful tale of Francesca, we fell as a dead body falls, which goes to prove that identical effects may arise from totally different causes. Towards ten at night Raoul waked us. The supper waiting for us was quickly despatched, and our mules were saddled and ready.

As I have said before, mules are far preferable to horses when travelling on the mountain-paths, which are called roads in the Andes. The old Shakespearian query, ‘What’s in a name?’ and the answer that a rose would smell as sweet even if called by another name, demonstrates the elasticity of words. To the average Englishman a road is a well-defined means of communication with or without rails, but offering all sorts of advantages for comfortable locomotion. Roads in the Andes at times are such as to invite the formation of legends. It is said that an American diplomatist, visiting a South American republic, alighted from the river steamer which had borne him far inland by the respective river, and was shown the mountain-road which he had to follow to reach the capital—a yellowish or reddish streak like a gash in the mountain, lying on its side like a rope carelessly thrown from the summit towards the base, following the sinuosities of the ground—and straightway remarked, ‘I’m off home; this road is only fit for birds.’

On such roads the mule is the best friend of man. Had Richard III. found himself in the plight we all know of in some such locality, the generous offer of bartering his kingdom (which, by-the-by, at that moment was a minus quantity to him) would have made for a mule instead of for a horse, and although the phrase—‘A mule! a mule! my kingdom for a mule!’—sounds comical (for these are questions of habit), probably the stock phrase would bring down the house with laughter. If the camel is called the ship of the desert, the mule deserves the title of the balloon of the mountains.

A friend of mine, knowing of my intended trip, had sent me his favourite mule, and well did the animal deserve the praises that its owner bestowed upon it; patient, sure-footed, collected, it carried me by precipice, ravine, ascended paths only fit for ants as lightly and carefully as if no weight were on its back. At the mud ditches which intersected the roads, and at times reached the proportions of miniature lakes, often treacherously deep, it would halt, looking at the waters with its big, ball-shaped, moist eyes, and no hint of mine, whether given with spur or whip, could disturb its equanimity. At the right moment, heedless of my meddling, it would jump or ford or slide as circumstances required. At the beginning of our companionship, during those long days, I began by endeavouring to have a mind of my own as to the part of the road to be selected. I soon saw that my efforts were useless, for that wisdom of the mule which men call stubbornness was invincible. And, frankly, it was lucky that I soon gained this conviction, as certainly the mule knew far better than I what should be done.

How strange all this sounds in this land of railroads, automobiles, omnibuses, and wheeled conveyances of every sort! yet there is more genuine travelling, more real travelling, in going from one place to another on the back of a mule than in being cooped for hours or days in a railway compartment whirled along at lightning speed. What does one learn about the country, what does one see of its beauty or of its peculiarities, in this latter case? It may be transportation, it may be locomotion, but it is not travelling.

If I were a man of ample means, I would certainly endow that splendid beast which carried me during so many days, or provide a pension for it, so that it might spend the remainder of its life in the enjoyment of meadows ever green, luscious with rich grass and sweet with the waters of rippling streams.

From Gambita on, our cavalcade had something of the aspect of a caravan. There were Alex, Raoul, and myself, besides our servant Fermin, four muleteers, and ten or twelve mules laden with our luggage, tents, provisions, arms, and so forth. This mob of travellers was so unusual that the simple folks in the villages through which we passed said that his lordship the Archbishop was no doubt on a tour. On hearing this, and finding that the people began to kneel by the roadside, rather than shatter their illusion, I—knowing that I was the most episcopal-looking of our crowd—decided to give my blessing, which I did with due unction to the kneeling maidens and matrons along the roadside.

From Gambita we shaped our course eastward. It was our intention to reach the Atlantic through the Orinoco River. We were seeking one of the many affluents of the river Meta, which is itself one of the largest tributaries of the Orinoco. The affluents of the Meta start on the eastern slope of the mountains which form the plateau of BogotÁ.

After three days’ ride from Gambita, we reached the estate of a friend near the town of Miraflores, where we had to prepare ourselves for the last stage of the land journey which would carry us through the dense forests bordering the lower eastern slope of the Cordilleras, and constituting a sort of fringe around the endless plains that extend for thousands of miles from the foot of the Cordilleras to the ocean. Across these plains flow the mighty rivers, their numerous affluents, and the countless caÑos, or natural canals connecting the rivers amongst themselves, and thus forming a perfect network of natural waterways.

At Miraflores we stopped for twenty-four hours to recruit our forces and prepare everything, not only for the last stage of the land journey, but for the long canoe voyage that lay before us.